


Rooted in the Sea

by Project5tbd



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, M/M, Slow Burn, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22230841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project5tbd/pseuds/Project5tbd
Summary: Bilbo Baggins wasn’t unhappy with his life. Granted, he was coming to terms with an empty house that was determined to drive him to an early grave, but he also had a new job in the kitchens of the Ered Luin that promised some sort of personal direction. All things considered, his life could be worse.He was, however, becoming convinced that he deserved a “Poor Choices of the Year” award. If he had been thinking properly he would’ve taken his break outside in the back parking lot like the rest of the staff. He wouldn’t have unintentionally agreed to visit Erebor, and he certainly wouldn’t have offered to help recover a sizable opal when asked by a group of arrogant, shifty, and tight-lipped men. And he would’ve punched Gandalf. Or called the police. So, why exactly hadn't he done those things?Oh, that’s right. He was a complete and utter fool of a Took.At least his mother would’ve been proud.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin/Nori (Tolkien)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’ve been lurking on ao3 for a few years now, and I finally worked up the nerve to write something. Constructive criticism is welcomed, and it is entirely possible there are grammatical or formatting errors (please let me know if there’s a bad one, so I can fix it). 
> 
> Disclaimer: if you can recognize it, it’s not mine. I am not profiting financially from this work.

The smooth silk of sweeping bannisters ran up the edges of a wide staircase, rivers of rich mahogany pouring from the opulent marble columns lining the second floor holding gold-dipped balustrades winking in the mellow light. Warm air, humid with the life and chatter of the crowd, slouched languidly through the cavernous space, interrupted here and there with the tinkle of champagne glasses settling on silver trays. Light, pooled on the upper level, trickled down like a garden waterfall to the lower, grabbing the iridescent chandeliers that hung above the shadowed grand ballroom space, a cluster of stars set in a miniature night sky.

It was on this shadowed lower level that Bilbo found himself two nights into his new job, leaning against a thick paneled wall just outside of a door leading down a twisting hall to the Hotel Ered Luin’s kitchens. Bilbo knew he shouldn’t be on this neglected floor and felt like a little frog hiding on the banks while Dale’s swans floated by in the Ered Luin’s sunlit pools. But the bustle of the kitchens, which usually lulled Bilbo into dull, thoughtless rhythms, had today restricted Bilbo’s preoccupied thoughts. Itching to go somewhere, Bilbo had taken his break early, not in that back lot like the rest of the staff, but had ducked through a service door, turning right and then left, following a slight human hum to this empty lower floor, a gaping cave of a room. The room was a ballroom if the width and height of the paneled walls were a fair indication, calm and peaceful in its removal from the action above.

He reclined against the wall, thinking about the job. It had been a surprise of sorts, a last minute call from a frantic sounding woman who had introduced herself as Poppy. One of her chefs was out on maternity leave sooner than anticipated, she had seen his application online, his references had checked out, and she wanted to offer him a job as a trial run with the potential of a full time position. When she mentioned that the job in question granted more days off and pay on the higher end of things, Bilbo had agreed to the offer, ready to escape the dull monotony of his old job. Yavanna knew he could use the money and the extra time to put some much-needed love into his house, whose growing list of complaints was straining Bilbo’s already tattered pocketbook. Prioritizing these issues was proving to be difficult, as day-to-day annoyances such as the leaking faucet in the master bath, the broken dishwasher, and wild flower beds vied against genuine problems like the drafty window sills that were sucking up his limited finances as the cooler autumn months approached.

Sorting through his mind in this manner, a light tapping touch on his arm caused Bilbo to recoil, accidentally slamming his elbow into the wall behind him as he spun around to face the intruder. And then, when he was facing a well-dressed man with exquisitely coiffed auburn hair, his stomach dropped with a sick ache in harmony with his elbow, as he remembered that he was the one who was technically intruding.

Bilbo winced. Shouting would ricochet through the lower ballroom to the guests and wait staff at event above, and news of his disgrace would doubtless reach Poppy’s pricked ears. If the man himself didn’t lodge a complaint, that was. The glorious vision of new windowsills and a day of garden maintenance rapidly receded from the realm of reality, back into distant hopes and dreams. Shit, he really should’ve taken his break outside, lots of fresh air and no potential to bother some high and mighty guest. Bilbo summoned his best apologetic look and to prepared plead his case.

The man had noticed Bilbo’s alarm, eyes widening and hands moving up palms open, placating. “Sorry, I gave you a fright there, mate. You looked lost is all,” the man said, waving a hand in reference to the surrounding ballroom. His voice held the slightest hint of an accent that Bilbo couldn’t place. Eastern perhaps?

Bilbo clung onto the morsel of apparent pity, scrambling to put together an excuse.“No, not lost. I work here. I’m new, just thought I would get some air. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll be getting out of your way now, very sorry to have bothered you, Mister…”

“Nori.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Nori. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Bilbo made an awkward bowing motion, not quite sure how to manage the etiquette surrounding getting caught hiding out in an empty ballroom at your new job by a guest.

“Just Nori.”

“Sorry, come again?”

“It’s just Nori, none of the mister stuff, it reminds me too much of my brother. He tires to cultivate a more respectable reputation than yours truly and enjoys the titles more than he really ought. Pompous ass.” This last bit was delivered with a great deal of genuine affection. Nori’s head tilted, ensnaring Bilbo in the sudden cage of a prying grin. “So, who’s offended you? Everyone upstairs, they can all be a bit much, but they don’t mean any real harm. It’s just show and bluster.”

“No one’s offended me.” Bilbo said in a rush, praying he’d be allowed to vanish into the wall.

“No one stands around in the dark, hiding from the party, unless they’re offended or plotting something. Are you plotting something?”

“What? No! No, I really am just getting some air, there’s hasn’t been a problem with anyone at all. I hardly know anyone here.” Bilbo protested. Then he paused, trying to order his thoughts, and Nori pounced on the moment of silence, frowning.

“Was it Dwalin?” At Bilbo’s scrunched expression, Nori added with a biting tone, “Tall fellow, balding, tattoos, looks like he could crush you with the flex of his arm, limited manners, probably called you “boy” when you were bringing around the wine glasses?”

Bilbo didn’t know if he should be concerned that Nori had confused him with a member of the wait staff. The black they wore was similar to be sure, but no respectable server at a party like the one upstairs would be covered in so much flour or smell like they’d showered in onion juice and oil. In Nori’s defense the lighting was poor, but nothing there was no excuse his sense of smell. Bilbo’s vehement denials and earnest explanations, however, landed on deaf ears, as Nori took each convoluted defense as further evidence of Dwalin’s guilt. Catching Bilbo off guard, Nori linked their arms together and began to pull Bilbo by his still smarting elbow across the shadowed ballroom towards the grand staircase that led up to the golden light and the people, Yavanna have mercy, chattering away.

“Mahal help me, I keep telling him to nicer to the staff, I do, but of course he doesn’t listen. He thinks being impolite makes him appear more masculine, no matter how often I tell him, “This is how you’re going to get poisoned you bastard. Snipe at the wrong fellow in a nasty tone of voice and just imagine the mess you’ll leave me with.” It really won’t kill him to develop some manners. You would think he was raised by trolls, the way he carries on some days. You don’t have to look so pale, you know. He’s not going to hurt you.”

Bilbo’s blood had drained away as soon as he realized he wasn’t going to be able to free his arm from Nori’s vice-like grip, which was ferrying him closer and closer to the last place on Middle-Earth he was supposed to be seen.

“At least he won’t in front of company,” Nori amended, which did not make Bilbo feel much better about meeting this Dwalin fellow. Big, impolite, and tattoos didn’t sound like he would take well to false accusations of bad behavior.

Bilbo desperately hoped that a miracle would occur. Spontaneous miracles still happened to people, didn’t they? Maybe his arm would pop free from his shoulder or maybe someone on staff would come down and recognize him, before he stepped over that top step. Surely, such a small miracle was within the ability of the Maker?

The greater powers looked on and laughed.

Dragged from the shadows underneath like a fish from a murky pond, up the grand old staircase, Bilbo was trapped in between glass and gold, dresses and diamonds, and walls coated in honey light from diamond-coated sconces, where the wood burned like fire in reds beneath his feet. The air became molasses thick, and people were turning, a head bent to whisper into a friends ear, every smear of flour was visible against his black outfit, every voice that rang out in laughter cutting to the quick of Bilbo’s fluttering heart. He needed to get out before he caused a scene. These people, all these people, with their evening gowns and fine suits, and Bilbo’s heart raced in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an actual member of the wait staff, a bright young man who had clapped Bilbo on the back with friendly enthusiasm not two hours ago, with wide questioning eye and a platter of hors d’oeuvres tilting and momentarily forgotten. He opened his mouth to beg for help, but shut it again as the crowd obstructed his vision. Nori weaved through the hall, heedless of the attention they were attracting, with unfaltering step, carrying them further and further into the room, where they were sandwiched between hushed gasps and too-bright lights. As he brushed past people who looked alarmed and confused, wrinkling their noses, Bilbo took it upon himself to alternate between murmured apologies and curses, as he supposed he might be equally bothered if he was drinking champagne and saw his onion-scented, flour-covered self pulled through a fancy gathering like a helpless, flopping fish on a line.

At last they broke through the thick of the crowd, heading out wide glass doors onto a balcony with blessedly cool air. Bilbo stopped dead at the view. The hotel was beautiful, and Bilbo knew it occupied prime real estate, but it was another thing entirely to see _this_ spread out before him.Out over the town, the real stars were reflected in the lights in downtown Dale nestled below the hill, peeking between a dark sky and an earth saturated in indigo dye.

Bilbo was captivated until a sharp tug on his arm nearly tripped him over his own feet, forcing him to remember the current state of his life. No views like this for him tonight or ever again, because if he wasn’t going to get fired before, he most certainly was now. Poppy had given him a quick rundown on her expectations, when he had reported for duty two days ago, most of which had boiled down to “nothing but excellence in service and never, _never_ , be the source of a scene.” Bilbo was confident he had broken that second rule, as this scene was probably engraved with flourishing strokes onto the eyelids of the staring wait staff and ballroom guests.

Only two men now stood in front of them, Nori’s internal compass was honing in, and Bilbo suddenly realized with utter conviction that he didn’t have to worry about his job anymore, because no one would remember his first appearance in the ballroom. They would remember the second. In all fairness, Bilbo thought he would probably remember paramedics wheeling a body bag out in front of him with greater clarity as well.

The taller of the two men, Dwalin, Bilbo’s panicked brain helpfully supplied, matched Nori’s description of him, bald, tattoos, a nose that had seen its fair share of punches, yet his musculature had, if anything, hadn’t been emphasized enough. Nori had sold short the girth of that arm, which could definitely break Bilbo as easily as a toothpick. The shorter of the two men, who still had at least six inches on Bilbo, was also muscular, but in a leaner way that suggested mere physical intimidation probably wasn’t the goal of his physique. He had sharp features, a narrow nose, clever eyes, a beard that did little to hide a defined jawline, and long wavy hair that would have been softening on anyone else but instead contributed to the growing spasms of anxiety radiating through Bilbo’s stomach and chest. Dwalin would crush Bilbo into a fine dust, but this second man looked capable of the patience required to skin him in a back alley. And, with that thought, Bilbo sucked in a useless breath, as all the air in the entire atmosphere took on the consistency of a thick smoothie.

When Nori came to a halt in front of the two men, Bilbo’s stressed and oxygen deprived mind was debating with itself the pros and cons of fainting. Pro: if he passed out, he wouldn’t have to be here. In this moment. Existing. Con: if he ever woke up, he’d have a killer headache. Pro: if he wasn’t conscious, he wouldn’t be able to feel someone squeezing the life out of him. But before he got the chance to come to a decision on either front, Nori confronted Dwalin.

“Apologize,” he said. Dwalin’s eyes narrowed.

“What for?”

“Being an ass to the wait staff.”

Dwalin looked Bilbo up and down, disdain written into the furrow of his scowling mouth. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Nori pointed at Bilbo’s face, which had yet to recover from its corpse like pallor in anticipation of Bilbo’s next job as murder victim. “Look, he’s distraught, pale, and I found him hiding in the front ballroom. He was clearly trying to avoid someone. That’s as good as a signed confession on your part, because you’re the only one here rude enough to insult somebody directly to their face.” 

"Well, yeah, I did say something, but not to him, to some other kid who wasn’t keeping his eyes where they belong. So why’s this one accusing me?” Dwalin growled.

“I’m not–I didn’t,” Bilbo stammered out, mildly offended, but when Dwalin’s eyes met his, he turned his face down and slammed his mouth shut with a faint strangled gasp. He’d probably never have the chance to examine such a nice floor so closely in the future, being dead and all.

“Oh no, you’ve gone this far to make trouble, boy. Out with it, and know that I don’t have patience for waggin’ tongues, so make it quick.”

Boy? _Boy_? Bilbo was maybe, _maybe_ , ten years this man’s junior, but to mistake him for a child for his height alone was impossible. Bilbo gritted his teeth as his self-preservation instinct warred against the burning indignity of public humiliation.

“Well, tell him.” Nori urged with a sharp elbow to Bilbo’s side, when his attention remained glued to the floor.

Bilbo’s eyes flicked back up to Dwalin’s sneering face, and his last string of sanity snapped. " _Death be damned_ ," he thought as he steeled himself for the inevitable outburst of aggressive energy conserved within those tight, defensive shoulders towering over him.

“I never said you did anything,” his voice wobbled at first but then grew both in volume and force as he continued. “Mister Nori wouldn’t let me tell him. I was simply taking my break in the wrong place, and I am terribly sorry for wandering where I wasn’t supposed to, but there really was no need to read so far into it.” Bilbo turned towards Nori, “It truly didn’t have anything to do with your friend. I made a mistake. I am grateful for your concern, I am, but I must insist on being allowed to return to my job. If I still have one that is.” Bilbo turned back to Dwalin, chin out.

Dwalin’s jaw clenched and unclenched.

A low, deep chuckle sounded from around Dwalin’s right shoulder. Right, the second man. His face betrayed no great hint of amusement besides a quirk of the mouth, and the shift of his head as he faced Bilbo, tossed hair revealing the glint of silver jewelry curved around his ears.

Dwalin’s scowling face rounded on Nori, “You’re denser than a boat full of lead. You should’ve listened to the lad, and you should’ve believed me.”

“Believed you, dear?” Nori asked incredulously. “Believed _you_ , when you said you would be polite? You do know who we’re discussing, right?” Nori snorted. “I was at Dís’s for that last little display, you forget, as I am sure no one else there will.” “I apologized.”

“You managed to insult everyone in the room, which is a difficult task considering my brother was there, and he never takes offense to anything.”

“We’re still fightin’ about that?”

“You called him a simpleton, Dwalin. Yes, we’re still fighting about that!” Nori’s stuck his hands on his hips as he stepped into Dwalin’s space.

“He _is_ a simpleton if he’s not gonna do what I told ‘im.”

Averting his eyes from the increasingly personal scene, which was in no way his business, Bilbo tried not to look as awkward as he felt, searching for an escape.

“Er, I’ll just be going then,” he muttered to the air, helplessly turning in a circle, trying to decide the easiest way to slip back through the crowd that had deserted the polite pretense of deafness as the argument shot to a higher volume and echoed off the balcony stonework. He wilted as he caught sight of the young man with the hors d’oeuvres, gaping. He was so fired.

“There’s a staircase to the right of the last door that goes back down to the kitchens,” a smooth, rich voice sunk down to Bilbo’s ears.

A rush of gratitude swept through Bilbo. The second man had moved past the verbal combatants and was standing with impeccable posture not quite facing Bilbo. He resembled the sculptures of great men in parks and public spaces, poised yet distant with a granite face without the barest hints of kindness or emotion. His removed attention was on his tailored, spotless, black double-breasted suit, which only served to recall Bilbo’s embarrassed attentions to his own flour-smeared attire. As if he needed another reminder that he didn’t belong on a balcony next to the city’s elite. He sighed, swallowing the remains of his pride.

“Thank you,” Bilbo said.

The man didn’t answer, adding insult to injury, but Bilbo turned away without forcing the issue, walking at a brisk pace towards the indicated door, ready to block this incident from his mind. People parted to let him through, and he did not stop to tell them off for muttering too loudly about the state of his clothes, or to cruelly twist their snubbed noses. Instead he focused on the rustling of their gowns and the barely audible music. It was a waltzing tune, easy to breathe in time with, which he did as he pushed against the suggested door that gave without resistance.

The dark and muted hum of the hallway embraced him like an old friend. Fighting the urge to slump against the wall in relief, and thinking it best to get his firing over with, Bilbo followed the staircase back into the depths of the hotel. The man had said it led back down to the kitchens hadn’t he? His face hadn’t yielded the smallest hint of a prank, but Bilbo suspected that the man was capable of toying with him for his own private enjoyment. However, after he had descended a flight of stairs, narrow in comparison to the sweeping grandeur he had more recently walked up, and began to smell the wafting scent of soups and breads, he was forced to admit that the man had been telling the truth.

Bilbo slipped back into the kitchens like a mouse does when avoiding a hungry cat. The hissing of pans and the slicing of carrots and onions were reassuring and familiar after the alien world of glitter and gold. “ _Foolish son of a Took_ ,” he thought. “ _Get in, do your job, and leave that’s all you’re meant to do here._ ”And he was foolish, foolish for wandering about willy-nilly, foolish for forgetting the comforting rhythms of preparing a meal, and foolish for letting himself get distracted from the satisfaction of an interesting job. Planning would get him nowhere if he didn’t keep the job that made it a possibility. Unfortunately, it rather looked like he was going to pay with said job for this evening’s lapse in judgment. Pans and Bilbo alike shook at Poppy’s stomping gait and murderous expression.

“Bilbo Baggins, we will have words after we finish service tonight. No, don’t you walk back out, now. I still need your help, Goddess help me. Besides, you owe it to me after that stunt you just pulled.”

Returning to his spot on the line, with no small smart of embarrassment, Bilbo put his head down and got to work, allowing his senses, the warmth of the counters, the slick liquid of tomatoes, and the fiery smell of burnt fish, to rule his thoughts. What felt like a moment later, as counters were being wiped down and people began to call out gruff “goodnights”, Poppy reappeared by Bilbo’s side. Time had not soothed her temper.

“What were you thinking? I gave you two instructions, Bilbo. Two! Do your damn job and don’t be the source of a scene. And what do I hear from Tom Cotton, but that he saw somebody dragging you through the upper hall and that he heard such dreadful shouting came from the balcony where you were last seen. Please, tell me why I shouldn’t fire you.” Poppy’s stare bored into Bilbo, pinning in place like a particularly angry beetle collector. The beetle fidgeted.

“In my defense, I’m not the one who started the shouting.”

Poppy’s expression pinched inward, but when Bilbo failed to offer further information, she passed a hand over her pulled back hair and sighed. Disappointment. Now that was an expression Bilbo was familiar with.

“Well, if it were up to me, I would fire you, so you can thank your lucky stars it wasn’t my decision.”

“I thought it was your decision," he said, heart pounding out a tango against his ribs. 

“I thought so too.” Poppy began to walk off. “But somebody upstairs agrees with you. They sent down word that it wasn’t your fault.”

“That was nice of them.”

“Nice is one word for it,” Poppy huffed. “Now I’m stuck with a chef who doesn’t listen to directions.”

Poppy disappeared between the counters and began yelling at some other careless soul who had left a mop where she could trip over it. Bilbo felt the tension drain from his body, slumping from his neck down to his shoes. Not one to tempt fate or Poppy’s temper, he swept up his belongings from the rack where he had stashed them and headed out the door. Fresh air burst over him, as he made his way down the discrete hedge lined path towards the parking lot. He was going to keep his job and his paycheck, if not his spotless reputation, which meant he’d have an opportunity to make up for this evening. Perhaps the universe didn’t hate him after all.

Bilbo’s mushy heart, squashed to pieces and soupy with relief, decided to forgive Nori. He had sent down an explanation of sorts, which was far more than Bilbo had expected from someone who seemed preoccupied with other, more personal, concerns. Thinking back to what could have spelled his permanent expulsion from the hotel, Bilbo resolved that he would keep is rebellious mind chained soundly within his head. No more reprehensible actions for him, and this incident would fade into blurred memory, a single wave in an otherwise calm sea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, most fantastic readers! Thank you so much for all the support!!! Bear with me on this chapter, I'm going somewhere with it, I swear. Have a wonderful day, and I hope you enjoy! :)

With the exception of that second night, Bilbo’s new job blended seamlessly into the routines of the old. The hours were similar, regardless of Poppy’s claims to the contrary, but, to his surprise, Bilbo felt more willing to put in the hours, his mental muscles basking in the contortions Poppy’s strict demeanor coaxed out of them, reaching for an excellency and attention to detail that Bilbo had let slide at the last job. The rigor Poppy imposed, criticizing, correcting, and nit-picky to the width of a carrot slice, left him immersed in a buzz of accomplishment as he drove home each night, pacifying some of the innate, murmuring dissatisfaction that Bilbo did his best to ignore in the light of day.

Despite his renewed pleasure _at_ work, however, Bilbo’s thrill inevitably faded before he was more than half way home, his empty nights running together like a video on repeat, dark scenery crawling by with the faint background static rush of traffic accompanying the van’s solo line, a concerning rattle of disrepair played on each ride home from the honey warmth of the Ered Luin’s kitchens. Pulling off the highway, the last of the evening’s tension abandoned both Bilbo and the van, the rattling easing into the less alarming whine of tired brakes, complaining about their abrupt use in front of the punctual stop lights that never failed to turn red right as Bilbo pulled up to them.

The last few turns into Hobbiton revealed a town not unlike the familiar illustrations in a child’s fairytale book, charming local stores locked up and quaint homes peeking between extensive, elaborate gardens that ate up the neighborhood with the barely contained malice of an encroaching jungle. Or, at least, Bilbo often liked to pretend they were being swallowed, because the alternative was sitting immersed in dead stillness of night on the van’s flakey faux leather seats beneath the solitary street lamp that casted an orangish glow on the story-book trees, staring out over his sprawling, old home as he had last night and the night before that, thinking about how nothing in particular had happened and how nothing in particular ever would.

 _“Not that nothing happening was a problem_ ,” Bilbo reminded himself. For all his fancy, if the neighbor’s shrubbery really did consume their homes, twisting and squeezing like a python swallowing a rat, he doubted the plants’ hunger would be satisfied, and, crawling with their entwined vines, they would engulf his house along with the rest. Bilbo didn’t relish that thought in the slightest, picturing homelessness as a bed made up on Cousin Lobelia’s lumpy couch where her sharp tongue and waspish ill humor would make every second a waking nightmare. No, if anything of the sort were to happen, Bilbo would probably let himself get eaten along with the house, not out of any particular desire to be eaten per se, but rather out of fear that Lobelia would make being eaten seem a terribly quick and relatively painless way to go.

Number 359 of Bag End Lane, of Hobbiton, stood primly with what marginal dignity it deigned to muster, immersed in its own slow growing jungle. The house, with its crooked shutters and framed round windows which matched the green front door, the flower beds, vague and overgrown in their orange-casted outlines, and the beige paint that had seen too many freezing storms and steamy afternoons, had persisted in its run-down complexion as the years had passed, reverting to old ways soon after any of Bilbo’s half-hearted attempts to inject the house with new vigor. Mostly concealed behind the corner of the house, a small garage sat disconnected with slumped and dilapidated doors that had loomed for thirty-odd years on the converted barn, perpetually waiting to give welcome to the livestock that had been shoved out in favor of human occupants. The house was universally regarded as a murky cesspit of debauchery and the sign of falling standards in today’s youth by the uptight, elderly locals who liked to point it out as an example to prospective buyers with shaking heads and tutting tongues. Perfectly happy with this description, the house didn’t put much effort into proving them wrong. In Bilbo’s private opinion, the house had decided to uphold its gloomy attitude out of spite, flaunting its wild appearance in a show of rebellion and betrayal at the untimely departure of its mistress.

The habit of staring at this monotonous nighttime scene had become an unfortunate reality of recent years, and Bilbo often strained to recall if the house had ever looked more lively in the morning sun. It was only ever when he returned from his job downtown, after hours on his feet in noisy kitchens, catering to the dining whims of Dale’s drunk, upper-crust society that he took the time to examine the house, which resolutely refused to chipper up with the passing seasons or Bilbo’s improving employment situations.

His feet protested at the injustice of being forced to function as he swung down from the van's high seat and stumbled around to the back door that led into the house’s built-on kitchen, concealed by trailing vines that, in the spring, burst into tiny purple flowers. Bilbo was ready for his day off tomorrow; that much was certain; his feet _hurt_. A breeze edged by with the chill of early November as he slid his key into the lock and jiggled at the sticky knob. The door gave in without any warning, causing Bilbo to reel from the sudden loss of resistance, because, _of course,_ the spiteful excuse for a home was going to try its damnedest to give him a sprained wrist.

Righting himself, Bilbo hesitated before flicking on the lights, delaying surveying the flour coated kitchen. The kitchen had been his mother’s studio, her haven, a place where she had hummed absently while her thick braided curls bounced as she flew from counter to counter chopping onions, stirring rose red jams, and concocting unidentifiable foods that had prompted polite declines to dinner invitations. The counters had often overflowed with papers, scraps of recipes cut from magazines and newspapers, hurried notes written and then forgotten, crumbs, and smears of copper pumpkin that inevitably sunk into anything legible. Bilbo had loved it here, loved his mother’s supple fingers guiding his through the pastry dough, loved how her untied apron strings caught in the kitchen drawers as she would open, rummage around, and shut them with exclamations of triumph, and loved the tilt of her head and the curl of her conspiratorial smile whenever she caught him sneaking warm ginger snaps off the hot trays, straight out of the oven. But now, alone in the midst of the little disaster that he preserved in her memory, there was a tugging at the sore ache of loneliness, open across the kitchen's counters.

There had been cheerful days before the yellow paint started to chip away, revealing a truly dreadful scarlet striped wallpaper underneath, before the windows no longer sat as snugly as they should in their sills, creating the draft Bilbo had never quite managed to get around to fixing, and before Belladonna had died and left him with a house that still belonged to her. Bilbo pulled the cool evening air into his lungs. “ _Kitchen’s not going to clean itself, so you’d best get to it Baggins_ ,” he thought, as he crossed towards a stack plates, wincing when he accidentally knocked into a counter, sending a pile of receipts tumbling.

Gathering up the week’s dishes, he began to drop dozens of empty trays, plates, and bowls from around the kitchen into soapy sink water to soak, mentally calculating the time it would take him to do the wash by hand and cursing the dishwasher that had finally shuddered out its last, dumping six gallons of water onto the floor. Bilbo had spent that Monday morning surrounded by soaking towels futilely trying to identify what had gone wrong and thoroughly convinced that the house not only wanted him out, but wanted him destitute, as he felt his wallet shriveling with each quote and fee he numbly repeated back to impatient repair men over the phone.

Bilbo cleared the counters of a week’s worth of messy jumble and flour, rearranging and prodding leaning cook books and precariously stacked tins of loose leaf tea, before plunging his arms deep in sudsy water, allowing his mind to drift away as his deft fingers worked at the crisp, stubborn grime adhering to the trays. His thoughts fixed on the ledge above the sink where the troop of objects his mother had collected while traveling as a college student, a plain carved wooden horse and a collection of wine corks with dates carefully penciled onto the sides, sat, undisturbed.

As a child Bilbo often stood on a chair at the counter beside his mother, begging for stories about the little horse. Belladonna would easily relent, launching into tales about drifting through weekend marketplaces and hearing the distressed whinny of a little horse, lost amongst pots, pans, and folded scarves, searching for a herd and wide pastures to roam. He would stare at the horse in those moments at the sink, wishing for it to move, for something fantastic to occur, for the magic that intertwined itself with his mother’s life to latch on to his own. It never did, however, and, as Bilbo grew older and his belief in magic waned into a curiosity for reality, he began to prefer to listen to Belladonna talk about fellow travelers met at country taverns or about dinners with Bilbo’s father, face misting over as she sunk into long silences filled with the steady stream of water pouring from the faucet. She would lose herself in reflection in those moments, gazing at the wall with what, in Belladonna Took’s vibrant world, probably amounted to a great deal of wistful sorrow.

Gazing at that same wall, Bilbo traced the swell of the faded, rolling, green hills he had started painting with clumsy brush strokes, feet in the sink, bent awkwardly around the faucet, trying to return the little wooden horse to the home he had traveled so far for and failed to find. His mother’s face had wrinkled in puzzlement when she found him with paint smudged across his forehead, informing her in the confident way that only six-year-olds can that the horse would be happier now that he could see his home. Belladonna had looked at him funny for a moment, but then she had pulled him off the counter and into a tight embrace, sighing lightly, “ _Oh my flower, he’s certainly waited long enough to see home, hasn’t he?_ ” She had helped him pencil in the rest of the hills, and they had made plans to finish the scene one day, but his mother, with ideas forever running rampant through her head, had forgotten, chasing after each day’s idea like a child distracted by a butterfly fluttering just out of reach on a warm summer’s day.

With everything dried and returned to the aging cabinets, Bilbo walked on autopilot towards the green door that connected the kitchen with the main house. The door and floorboards creaked in sympathy with one another as Bilbo eased the door shut behind him and padded down the hall towards the smaller breakfast nook where he kept a stash of granola bars and smaller pre-prepared meals. He needed to go grocery shopping; over the last few days he had subsisted on more tea and pastries than anyone really should, and his stomach had no reservations about making its complaints about the poor treatment known.

Rounding the corner and preoccupied with taunting his poor abused digestive system with the heavenly image of a sliced cucumber salad, Bilbo almost failed to notice in the faint light of the room, sneaking between the curtains from the street lamp outside, the glowing outline of a wrinkled face and hands folded neatly on his uneven square of a kitchen table, belonging to a man who was regarding Bilbo with the air of a man perfectly comfortable with breaking into stranger’s homes and making use of their tables in the dead of night.

“Good morning, Bilbo Baggins,” the man spoke evenly, sending Bilbo lurching to a halt, jaw slack and eyes wide.

There was someone in his house. Police? Was he going to be _murdered_? Holy shit. Police. _Police._ Where was his phone? Should he scream? Holy fucking _shit_ , there was someone in his house.

The old man’s mouth rose steadily into what might’ve been interpreted as an amused smile if Bilbo’s more reasonable brain hadn’t just puffed out of existence, leaving his defenseless, adrenaline-soaked body to fend for itself. Bilbo’s fingers twitched in an uncoordinated effort to reach towards his back pocket where his cell phone sat uselessly, while his mouth choked out aborted gasps and stuttering words driven by the panic swirling up through his gut. Sweet Yavanna protect him–there was someone _in his house_.

“H–how… who are… police,” his disconnected mouth settled, irrational fear latching onto the tenuous logic of this next step with all the desperation of a drowning man clutching at dangling threads. “I-I will call the police, if you don’t explain why you’re in my house at once,” his voice rose, tense with fear, as he continued when the old man stayed silent. “This is breaking and entering. This is _my_ house, and you, sir, are trespassing, so if you do not explain _at once_ how it is you’ve found yourself within it, on Yavanna's name I swear that I will call the police.”

His shaky fingers struggled against the material of his back pocket while, with great difficulty, Bilbo maintained eye contact with the man, hoping against all hope to inspire some sort of intimidation. Just as he managed to free his phone, it slipped from his nervous grasp, fell, and slid across the floor towards the table where the man watched without a tinge of the panic crushing Bilbo’s lungs. Bilbo’s bravado vanished like a frightened house cat given the opportunity to vanish under a bed, and a whimpered shout fell through his lips as he froze in place.

The old man’s brows furrowed and then lifted in understanding. “My dear fellow, I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I haven’t broken into anywhere. Your mother gave me a key.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

“Gandalf”, or so the old man claimed to be called, and Bilbo sat across from each other, while they nursed a long pipe and a cup of strong black tea, respectively. Emotions roiled within Bilbo’s head and chest, flickering from one unidentifiable form to another until his mind was stretched like colorful taffy in a candy shop window. He clutched at the mug of tea, ignorant of the warmth seeping into his hands, puzzling over Gandalf’s claims with half a mind to disregard them altogether as the delusions of exhaustion or some kind of breakdown.

Gandalf certainly _looked_ like someone his mother might’ve known, with defined eyebrows flaring to white at the top of their arches, an untamed grey beard, loose clothes, and an apparent disregard for social conventions, which Belladonna would have declared charming. Bilbo’s rational mind, which had made its much anticipated reappearance, had decided to air on the side of cautious doubt, while his anxious body continued to argue that its untimely death was imminent in the tremor of his hands. Allaying his more immediate fears and providing evidence on the side of his rational mind, Gandalf did have in his possession a distinct silver key, a key that, to Bilbo’s knowledge, had never had more than the two copies currently on his own key ring.

“I met your mother many years ago,” Gandalf recalled almost to himself before addressing Bilbo. “She helped me with several projects of mine when I was based in Rivendell. She was an excellent person to work with, very efficient.”

As though sensing that Bilbo was still too conflicted over the numerous violations of propriety to formulate a response, even the “is that so?” his ingrained manners demanded, Gandalf continued. “We worked together for a fair amount of time, until she ran off to marry your father.” A tip of the head at that and Bilbo's deepest soul disintegrated under the thinly veiled scrutiny in those piercing eyes. “I told her it would be the end of her career, that Bungo would never support it, but she was in love, and who was I to demand that she stay? We got by without her, of course, but she has been sorely missed.”

Bilbo’s mind ripped through its memories, straining to recall any mention of Gandalf, work in Rivendell, or a story revolving around a job Belladonna had mentioned before having Bilbo, but his mental nets came up empty as if sifting through a swimming pool for fish. Belladonna’s little trinkets were evidence enough of her traveling, but that was just here and there, nowhere as far off as Rivendell. None of her stories had mentioned a grey, old man, and certainly none of them had indicated enough familiarity to warrant giving someone a key to her home. And, in the end, those were just little tales meant for indulging a child’s curiosity. Belladonna’s big story, the only one that had actually mattered at the end of the day when Belladonna smooth down his curly hair and kissed him goodnight, had been that she had gone to college and had married Bungo shortly after, a simple, chronological record that had never had gaps of unaccounted for time or cryptic strangers lurking off stage.

“I’m sorry, but where did you say she worked again?” Bilbo asked, trying and failing to maintain the veneer of politeness in his tone of voice.

Gandalf’s brow crinkled, “No, I don’t suppose she would have told you, would she? Smart woman.” He paused and drew a long breath from his pipe. He breathed out, steadily, and then, mind apparently made up, stated as though announcing some trivial fact, “She worked for the White Council. We were, and continue to be, as I am sure you know, an organization dedicated to maintaining the proper balance of things, or, if you will, keeping the peace.”

The White Council? That phrase clicked into Bilbo’s memory with a burst of sound from the van’s radio and in the tense voices of grim-faced newscasters reporting from windy streets, late at night. Their hurried voices recounted the details of grisly attacks and spiking crime levels next to everyday shops marked off with yellow crime scene tape, urging people to report suspicions and call in tips to the local authorities. _The White Council._ Here and there across Bilbo’s memory smaller criminal enterprises collapsed like card houses caught in a sudden draft, missing persons found, dead, sometimes alive, smuggling rings, illicit goods, money recovered, and reassurances that life would return to normal. Belladonna Took, in her pastel knitted sweaters, grumpy and curled around her first cup of coffee, wasn’t an image that belonged with those dangerous scenes. She hadn’t even liked crime based TV dramas, for Yavanna’s sake.

“My mother? My mother who worked a day shift at Daisy’s art store and spent weekends trying to invent movie themed desserts was involved in that–that crime organization?” Bilbo cut in, nearly laughing at the words. “You must be joking, and at my expense too. I am sorry, I am sure you think you’re really quite funny, but it is late, my patience is gone, my senses have returned, and I am no longer in the mood to entertain this nonsense.”

Bilbo hopped to his feet and waved his hands towards the hallway and the front door, tapping his foot against the ground in impatience. Gandalf sat, unruffled as a tree on a windless day, regarding Bilbo, with the solemn lines of his mouth pulled down. 

“Crime _prevention_ organization,” Gandalf corrected after a minute of stubborn resistance to Bilbo’s very best scowls. “You may sit down, Bilbo Baggins. I am many things, but prone to impromptu trickery is not one of them.”

Bilbo remained standing, arm falling back to his side. The nerve of the man! Inviting _him_ , Bilbo Baggins, to sit, and in his own damn home no less?! 

Bilbo’s bit down on his tongue, drawing the iron taste of blood. Gandalf sighed and drew another breath from his pipe. “Your mother knew how to keep a secret, and although I believe she has done us both a disservice in neglecting to tell you of her work and her role in certain histories, she had her reasons. Her work was sensitive, you understand, and she was always very… _skilled_ at covering her tracks. The Wainwrights and Dol Guldur were hardly known for taking kindly to interferences of the sort your mother ran. It would have been disastrous if word of our methods of operation had leaked out.” Gandalf leaned back in his chair, and Bilbo watched as age crept over his face. “But, the underworld is growing restless, the nights are growing long, and people have forgotten what it is like to be afraid of their streets and for their neighbors, forgotten how to walk on tiptoes past sleeping dragons and how to keep their mouths shut. Belladonna knew these sorts of things, and I find myself here, in sore need of her.”

“Well, I am not my mother, disappointing as I’m sure it is,” Bilbo responded sharply, shoving Gandalf’s assertions about his mother aside for later processing. “She’s _dead,_ and you’ve come to the wrong person. I’d find myself dead in a ditch before the year is out.”

“Oh, I rather doubt that. Belladonna Took, would never have allowed a child to grow up without being resourceful.” Gandalf put aside his pipe and continued, “Transparency cannot always keep the darkness at bay, Bilbo Baggins. A pane of glass cannot be held up in thin air, lattice work is necessary to preserve those sun-saturated garden views that are so precious to so many. Good work is good work, if not exactly honest. It’s why your mother agreed to take the job–to keep beautiful things in sight, no matter if something ugly must, by necessity, mar the view of a few. ” That fixed blue stare held Bilbo encased in an unbreakable diamond blue. “I had rather hoped that desire lived on in her son.”

Bilbo defensively crossed his arms and bit back the surge of anger that met those words. Insinuating that Belladonna, of all people, had been involved with the silent downfalls of such notorious groups such as the Wainwrights, who had funded some of the muscle and drugs known to haunt the back alleys and legally grey organizations, and the collapse of Dol Guldur, the famed branch of one of the oldest crime rings in the country, connected with a series of kidnapping and gruesome murders of city politicians, was the peak of absurdity. Insinuating her son capable of the same was beyond lunacy.

And really, what did _Gandalf_ know? Bilbo _knew_ Belladonna. She had stood five feet tall, a height her son barely surpassed. She had found the news depressing. She had worn colorful clothes and had talked brightly with the grocer, the mailman, and the neighbors, confiding all the mundane trivialities of life in whoever offered her a kind word. She had never left home for longer than a weekend because she would get “a terrible missing” in her chest. She had shown up to every school play, attended every parent-teacher conference, and had lorded over a table at every bake sale. And, she had, one March day, a few weeks after he had tried to paint the plains of Rohan for the little wooden horse, pressed a silver key into Bilbo’s hand, with an elaborate rose window design in the bow, declaring that the locks had been changed and that she had thought it was about time for him to have his own key. An unmistakable copy of which now sat before Gandalf on the kitchen table, its smooth metal beckoning with the reflected gold-pale light of the rising dawn.

 _“She was your mother. You knew her better than anyone_ ,” his inner voice insisted.

Maybe he didn’t though. Who, after all, could say they really knew their parents, their inner-most thoughts, their pasts? A trickle of bitter doubt that grew into a stream knocked about Bilbo’s ears, whispering that he could no longer count himself among that slim, happy number.

“Why did my mother give you that key?” Bilbo asked, voice hollow. “The same reason she gave one to you, I suspect. In case she was ever not at home to let me in.”

That stung deep in Bilbo’s chest. His gaze dropped to the wooden boards, scuffed by chairs and shoes over the years, lined swirls fading into misty smudges as he blinked back against the angry tears that pushed at his eyes. Gandalf was _wrong_. He had to be. Bilbo was stranded in the midst of a personal earthquake, his solid foundation fractured with the ease of pulling a leg out from underneath an elderly woman, leaving her gasping on the floor in distress. Each moment that passed, the certainty of Gandalf’s words entrenched themselves further along the muddy plains of Bilbo’s heart, in the thought of this house infested with termites. These degrading termites permeated the memory of his mother pressing the key into his hand, nibbled at her worried brow, staring outside on a sunny day, her avoidance of the news, and her refusal to travel beyond the comfort of the Shire’s calm neighborhoods. They were the pieces of a puzzle that he hadn’t even thought to place together without the help of some presumptuous old man, who like a lightning strike, descended as though from the sky, to light his metaphorical house on fire. He wished this doubt, so much worse than loneliness would, would dissolve into nothing, wished that these thoughts had never walked in his front door.

 _Dammit,_ he wished he could melt into the floor, anything to avoid confronting this specter of his mother whose brown eyes hid too much, concealing things he would never get to question her about. Bilbo wanted to yell at her, wanted to shout himself hoarse, wanted to lay out these accusations, wanted to bring the house down with the confusion and betrayal he felt and set it alight. What else had been lies? He wanted her to feel his betrayal, wanted her to defend herself and deny it all, wanted to scream at her with all his might, because how could she hide this from him for all these years? Why, in all the time they had spent together, talking, eating dinner, doing the dishes, had she never mentioned this? How could he not have noticed that _his mother_ wasn't what she had said she was?

But, because the dead rarely rise from the grave to answer the accusations of the living, Bilbo sucked in a breath of air, releasing it without anger as exhaustion weighed down his tone.

“I’m not whatever you say she was. I do ordinary, proper, _legal_ things. I answer my mail, pay my taxes on time, and hold down a decent paying job,” Bilbo wrenched out, fists clenching and unclenching where they had fallen to his sides, his throat tight. “She wasn’t… I can’t–won’t be involved with those things, you understand. I won’t lead you to think that I am someone I’m not. She was a regular person, my mom. I am a regular person, and I would very much like to stay that way, thanks.”

The silence between them stretched out as the room sketched itself in the fine pencil lines of morning. Somewhere outside a bird began to chirp the first songs of morning. A thrush, Bilbo dimly recognized. Bilbo’s feet were numb, and, as he looked down at them, he thought about the muted ripping sound and the dirt hanging from an uprooted plant, long, pale, and exposed fingers limp and reaching down, craving the dark coolness, the worms, and the safety concealed among the soft soil’s secrets.

Gandalf shifted at long last, rising from his seat and towering over Bilbo, the sweep of a long coat falling down to his creaking knees. He, unlike everything else in the room, and everything else in Bilbo, appeared distinct and concrete, a cloud above the storm, his expression as unrevealing as the sky itself.

“Shall I show myself out then?”

And, before Bilbo could detangle himself from the floor's sticky grasp to mutter apologies and lead the way, Gandalf was already three long-legged strides down the hallway. Bilbo’s own legs gave into to their duty after a half second of bewildered distress, and he flew down the hallway as Gandalf turned the well-polished doorknob and leaned to go out.

“Have a good morning,” Bilbo offered flatly from the middle of the hall. “And all the luck in the world finding someone who can help.”

Gandalf inclined his head, stepped out the door, and vanished with the final thud and click of the door. The hall was cool and empty. Bilbo could hardly believe he was gone. It could have all been a dream, a terrible, upsetting dream, except for that damned thrush that called out in crystal clarity once again. Bilbo stood in the hall and counted its chirping calls, one, two, three, four, and then turned on his heel and headed straight to his bedroom, flopped on the bed, and fell asleep the second the mattress gave out beneath him, his battered psyche quickly surrendering to oblivion

. . . . . . . . . .

It only occurred to Bilbo, after he woke up in the mid-afternoon, as he watched dust motes drift through the air above his bed like an impossibly light snow, that he could not recall whether or not Gandalf had pocketed his copy of the key. Could you report someone for breaking in if they had a key and an invitation from your dead mother? A long expired invitation granted, but maybe it still qualified as some sort of misunderstanding in the eyes of the law. What if Gandalf came back? Kidnapped him? If Bilbo was lucky, truly lucky, Gandalf’s copy of the key would be on the table, a quiet promise not to come again.

Half-hoping that the entire incident really had been a dream, Bilbo’s swung out of bed and crept towards the breakfast nook, stomach sinking as he stood in the front of the table and discovered that the only interruption of the mellow, afternoon shine of stained cherry wood was a cream-colored business card with a phone number printed in a looping hand.

It looked as though Bilbo was going to have to learn how to change his locks after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello most wonderful readers!!!  
> So, this month has been, for lack of a better word, rough. I can't tell you how much I've loved reading your comments!!! They really do make me smile for hours and hours, and hearing your feedback helps keep this project moving in positive directions. I hope you and your loved ones are safe, and if you're here to escape for a while that this helps. And so, without further ado, I give you chapter three!

The next three weeks passed by uneventfully. No more strange old men appeared at Bilbo’s table, or at the door, although there were moments when a shadow’s movement out in the garden prompted him to spy through the curtains, fingers hovering over his phone’s screen, ready to slam down on the emergency call button. Entertaining Gandalf’s insane stories had been a mistake, a lapse in worn judgement augmented by a mind weak with exhaustion, and Bilbo had decided that he would not grant the opportunity for such an occurrence to come about again. His mother had been a perfectly ordinary woman, his job was going well, and Bilbo thought he was slowly but surely winning Poppy’s grudging respect despite the unfortunate circumstance of that first evening. There was absolutely nothing to complain about. He kept his head down, took his breaks out back with the rest of the kitchen staff, and turned out perfect salmon after perfect salmon. He had finally gotten together the money to replace the window sills. Yes, everything was going as well as could be expected. 

Unfortunately, life never gave much of a damn about Bilbo’s expectations. 

On the third crisp day of October, Bilbo stood in line at his favorite tea shop, trying to decipher a menu written in cramped, flowing cursive from the back of an unreasonably long line for one in the afternoon. Tea at the shop was an indulgence, but, now that it was an affordable indulgence, Bilbo planned to take every advantage of the warm sunlit chairs, house plants he wasn’t responsible for, and the soothing scent of jasmine as he sorted through this week’s flood of mail. Black tea or the chamomile? 

A whiff of cinnamon joined the jasmine. Mouthwatering. A young woman in a blazer and hair pulled tight into a chignon walked past, heels clicking, and Bilbo craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the liquid producing the heavenly aroma that grew alluringly with proximity. 

There was a tap on his shoulder, drawing Bilbo from his measured deliberation between unknown cinnamon drinks and tried and tested tea. Turning around, and fully expecting to hear some wrinkled elderly lady creak out a demand that he be a dear and read off the blend of the week to spare her eyes, Bilbo’s mood plummeted into the depths of despair quicker than a sinking boatful of lead when he spotted a familiar pointed hairstyle. 

“How can I help you Mr. Nori?” he sighed. 

“I’m an ass,” Nori announced, chest puffing and appearing oddly proud of the fact. 

“I’m not sure I can do anything about that.” Bilbo attempted to re-immerse himself in the task at hand, but Nori caught his elbow, preventing him from turning back towards the menu, and didn’t that just prompt an inescapable rush of déjà-vu? Bilbo resigned himself to the Valars' s wicked sense of humor. 

“I really am sorry. You have my sincerest apologies.”

“It’s alright. I’d forgotten it.” Bilbo offered up a pained smile in an effort to end the conversation. 

“Oh Mahal!” Nori slapped his forehead. “I didn’t get you fired, did I? I swear I meant to send down a note or something. Shit! I don’t even know your name, and I got you fired. Do you need help? Should I call your supervisor?”

Now Bilbo was vaguely confused. 

“Um, it’s Bilbo Baggins, and I thought you did send word down.” Bilbo recalled it quite distinctly, the worry, relief, and gratitude at Poppy’s dismissal. He had assumed Nori was responsible, because, well, it just made sense for Nori to have done it. It had been  _ his _ fault Bilbo’s job was in jeopardy.  _ He  _ had dragged him through the hotel.  _ He _ had presumably taken responsibility for the misunderstanding. 

Hadn’t he?

“No, no, I meant to, but Dwalin and I got, er, distracted. But you’re saying you weren’t fired?”

“No, I wasn’t.” 

“Ah, that’s good.” Nori rubbed the back of his neck, relief visible in the crinkled lines of his eyes. “Look, I still feel awful about the whole thing. Would you let me make it up to you? I’m supposed to go to this dinner thing, I’m allowed to bring guests, and everybody I know already has their own invitations. It’s a free meal, which I feel like is the least of what I owe you.” 

Bilbo’s heart stirred at the earnest look in Nori’s eyes, but what the depths of that organ wanted most in the entire world was to be left alone. Far away from Nori. Preferably  _ very  _ far away. 

“I barely know you, and you almost got me  _ fired _ ,” Bilbo said incredulously. 

“Great friendships have gotten their start on much less. Besides, you’ll ease my guilty conscience. I’d hate to leave the impression that I’m a complete ass,” Nori pressed. 

“Isn’t this a private event? Won’t other people mind?” The image of Dwalin’s arm flexing around his neck gustily blew into Bilbo’s mind. 

“Oh no, not at all. Not to offend you or anything, but there will be so many people there they probably won’t notice you. No one will pay you the least bit of attention. Except for my charming self of course,” Nori finished with a grin. 

Bilbo hesitated, an alphabetized list of reasons as to why spending time with Nori would end up ruining his life roaring through his mind with exclamation points and flaring neon letters. He’d end up losing his job for real this time, or, worse yet, stuck in a jail cell where Nori would conveniently forget to bail him out. Sweet Lady, he didn’t want to do this. This was a terrible idea. Fortunately, avoiding verbal confirmations was an art form Bilbo was well versed in. If he agreed to this “dinner” there was a very good chance that Nori would walk away and forget all about this interaction, leaving Bilbo to go through his bills in peace, alone, with zero obligation to satisfy Nori’s suspect “conscious”. At any rate, he could always come down with a terrible case of the flu or some other illness at the last minute and cancel. Nori’s face was strained with the force of his hopeful smile. Yavanna help him, it was the quickest path to escape. 

“When is it?” he groaned out, against all rational judgment. 

Bilbo ordered his drink at the counter, a lavender latte because he needed the caffeine to continue this excruciating endeavor, while Nori scribbled multiple paragraphs onto a napkin to accompany his verbal directions. 

“Next Thursday. It’s not black tie, but you’ll want to wear a suit if you’ve got one. I can pick you up, and I’ll need your address and phone number, of course.” 

Bilbo complied, hastily accepting the pen shaken under his nose as he juggled his coffee, his wallet, and bag, weighed down with a dinosaur of a laptop and his personal ledger. Nori addressed the young lady being the counter with rakish flippancy, “The name’s Nori, dear, we spoke on the phone, you have a package on hold for me,” then back to Bilbo, “The dinner starts at eight, but I need to be there early, so plan to be ready around six thirty.” Nori handed over the napkin and tucked his paper wrapped bundle under his arm. “Right then, see you soon.” 

Nori extended another easy smile and a hand to shake, and maybe it was Bilbo’s harassed imagination, but the eager emotion thick in Nori’s voice didn’t quite reach his eyes as he gripped Bilbo’s free hand. As quick as the misgiving settled into Bilbo’s frame, like the warning of a second soul, the feeling dissipated. 

Nori dodged through the shrinking line of customers and disappeared under the wooden door frame, a little bell tinkling like the fair folk were apt to do in Bilbo’s mother’s stories. As he settled into one of the chairs by the broad windows and pulled his papers from his bag, he was caught in the bittersweet reflection that his mother would have been overjoyed to hear of a not-solely-related-to-work social engagement. Not that he intended to go. And considering what Gandalf had claimed his mother was involved with, her approval wasn’t something Bilbo would have wanted overly much when it came to his life choices. 

Bilbo shoved that unpleasant thought from his brain and shook his head. This invitation wasn’t going to derail his life as surely as it had derailed his day, Bilbo would make sure of that. His pride had suffered enough at Nori’s hands. He was only one polite excuse from leaving all of this nonsense behind him for good. Flipping open his laptop, he supposed there was no time like the present to begin drafting an apology. 

. . . . 

_ You’re not sick. _

“You’ve got to be  _ fucking _ kidding me,” Bilbo exclaimed to his empty house from his armchair, afternoon light buffing out the wears of everyday life. He should have called, he could do a convincing sniffle if he tried, and Nori would’ve bought it in a heartbeat. Yavanna knew his teachers had bought it enough times to be worth bragging about when he was a kid. As it was, Bilbo was tempted to send an emoji with the middle finger up defiant, proud, and ready to be done with the matter, manners be damned. 

That was not, however, what Bilbo texted back. He was a–somewhat–rational adult, capable of standing above this month of inconvenient, upsetting events, and he still had enough pride not to stoop to such a level without applying a hairsbreadth more patience.

_ Pardon me?  _

Three thinking dots rolled as Nori typed. 

_ You went to work today. You’re not sick. _

_ How do you know I went to work today?  _

_ Not important. _

Bilbo’s eye twitched as he imagined Nori crouched in the bushes concealing one the Ered Luin’s service entryways, binoculars in hand and a trench coat draped around his frame, handing out disposable cameras and asking waitstaff to be “dears” and to “snap a photo of Bilbo Baggins for me this evening, while trying to play it off naturally?” Oh no, that wouldn’t do at all, Poppy would send him out on his ass if she caught word that unsavory characters were lurking about looking to collect dirt on Bilbo Baggins. Not that Bilbo was certain Nori was  _ unsavory _ , per se, more that he warranted slight suspicious if not genuine concern. 

_ It is too important! Are you stalking me?  _

_ No. Just get in the car when it arrives, alright? ;) _

_ You want me to get into a car with you??? Are you insane? _

_ Yes.  _

“Really Baggins, you couldn’t have guessed that one?” Bilbo grumbled, regarding the message in front of his face as he would an offensive sign stuck in his front lawn, before sending his own string of replies. 

_ No. _

_ Absolutely not. _

_ I refuse. _

_ I will not be dragged about against my will. _

There was no response. Bilbo sat, staring at his phone, wondering if he should call to verbalize his displeasure. 

_ Nori, are you reading this??  _

_ See you at 630! _

_ Fuck you. I’m not going. _

Bilbo threw his phone down on the coffee table and picked up his discarded book with a huff. 

. . . . 

The car was sleek, full of supple leather, darkened windows, and a new car smell mixed with the spicy scent of cologne. Nori lounged against the dark interior, the formal portrait of ease, Dwalin glowered, and Bilbo sat perched stiffly on the edge of his seat, because surrender to the plush give of the leather would be betraying his own heated indignation. The car purred and glided through Dale’s streets, confident and powerful contrary to the profound discomfort stifling one of its occupants. It had been nearly twenty minutes, and, not having the slightest idea where they were going, Bilbo was inclined to give up all hope of arriving anywhere, much less anywhere with dinner. He was hungry, bothered, uncomfortable, and committed to nurturing a hefty resentment towards Nori on the subject of his forced removal from his own home. 

Despite Nori’s insistence that the dinner was not strictly a black tie affair, he and Dwalin were both sporting black dinner suits with spotless white dress shirts, Dwalin’s a bit rumpled. Having taken Nori’s words to mean some color would be allowable, Bilbo had selected a wine-colored suit jacket and the olive waistcoat he had worn at a cousin’s wedding a few months ago. It had fit well enough when he was examining himself in the mirror before Nori barged into his bedroom doorway tapping his wristwatch, having decided closed doors were more of suggestions to keep out than actual demands. But now, as Bilbo struggled to breathe properly through his heated frustration, he thought the vest was too snug, painfully constricting his lungs and churning stomach. The car was too hot, and Bilbo was losing the will to resist the urge to roll down a window without asking permission from the other occupants he was definitely  _ not  _ speaking to. If the windows opened. Cars as nice as this never drove by with the windows down, so for all Bilbo knew they were super glued shut. He hooked a thumb under his waist coat and closed his eyes. This damn car ride couldn’t end quick enough. 

Finally,  _ finally, _ the car slowed to a leisurely crawl and then stopped, smooth as the transition from ice to water. Nori and Dwalin slid out of the car gracefully, which Bilbo was  _ not _ resentful of even if he clambered out awkwardly while swearing vehemently under his breath. Surely, a box of chocolates and an apology note would have been kinder than this ceaseless torture. 

And then he saw it. 

Massive slate grey granite columns soared upwards, broad and strong, until they melted into delicate geometric detailing, traced by illumination from concealed lights. The stone façades spoke of ancient temples and commemorations to grand emperors as horses and men with swords charged about the cornices and colorful banners flew underneath the bold arches, heraldry announcing the arrival of the kings of old. Exquisite. Bilbo was in love. 

“I thought you’d like it. You seemed the type.”

“Where are we?” Bilbo asked with a low undertone of wonder.

“Hmm? You mean Erebor?” Nori’s confused eyes lit up with amusement. “Have you by any chance been living under a r–”

Erebor. The name sauntered through Bilbo’s head, eventually connecting with the thread of a memory long forgotten, of being small, well,  _ smaller _ , and bundled up in downy coats, holding hands in a line of children walking up the wide, imposing steps, cold nipping at his mittened fingers and unguarded ears. It must have been a field trip in the early elementary school years, when memories were still such fluid, sliding things, that shifted about indistinctly in an adult brain, leaving behind only the impression of vague, satisfied happiness. He did not recall the impressive severity of the building, but Bilbo supposed that all children must think all buildings large, and intimidating, and delightfully new. How such a building had escaped the knowledge of his adult life, Bilbo couldn’t have said for all the money in the world. 

Nori and Dwalin had begun walking towards the building, up the wide stairs, long and low, built to draw out the approach like a field before a monument, and Bilbo, snapping out of his gawking reverie, strode quickly to catch up. As he gradually climbed, the building before him grew truly massive, swallowing him whole as he moved beneath the first of the towering stone arches and then passed through the wide ebony-colored doors, standing open and flanked by attendants in perfect suits, who checked the creamy invitation on thick paper that Nori procured from his jacket’s pocket. 

Although the packaging really should have indicated the quality of the contents, it fell plain and flat in comparison to the sprawling interior, commanding attention as a jeweled ring does when set in an elegant, yet understated, black box. Bilbo couldn’t feel his knees, couldn’t feel his hunger, couldn’t see his undoubtedly gaping jaw. He couldn’t tell where the light was coming from, only that the very air molecules themselves glowed, that the floors and walls shone with secret, internal warmth, and that he almost feared to look down to discover that he himself was emitting rays of rapturous light. Words failed him, and he drifted as if in a dream towards the first of the paintings, trying, and failing to replace the singing in his head with real, coherent thoughts. The colors, deep and reflective, textured, bold and soft, the great works of art that defined a cultural tradition swept Bilbo into their depths, and then he too was reclining on grass by goddesses fair and happy, lost in the midst of a chaotic battle, and sitting peacefully in a garden under a mountain, examining those translucent drops of morning dew, sliding down an iris’s stem. Bilbo drifted from wall to wall, through gallery to gallery, aimlessly content and completely enveloped in a bliss where purpose was nothing but a distraction. 

As he fell deeper and deeper into the halls, the crowds of people who clogged the entrance fell away into smaller and smaller groups, until no one, save him, sat on a bench in a sparsely decorated room in front of a large canvas that created a portal to a cloudy seascape, imagining blustery wind catching at his curls the same way it playfully pulled on beach grass, ruffling his shirt as the waves broke on the shoreline. 

Once he had planned to visit the sea, and, although the thought hadn’t entered his head in years, he felt a sudden yearning. His mother had always said that she would take him with that wistful look in her eyes, but then things came up, reasons to stay at home, things to do about the house, a sick aunt to visit, chores to complete, and they had never gone. Then he’d planned to go by himself, but he’d gotten so busy, with his mother in her failing health, with school, then with trying to make ends meet, until he managed to look up, too ensnared in a life he’d never intended to build, but that he balked at leaving all the same. Wherever would he find the time, and why contend with the sand, the effort of a day of driving on one of his coveted days off?

A low throaty growl, that could have been someone clearing their throat, came from behind Bilbo’s left shoulder, and he internally cringed to see the man who had been with Dwalin on that first night at the hotel, impeccably attired in a deep navy blue suit, hair pulled back, standing three paces away. Bilbo flushed uncomfortably, hoping the man hadn’t been trying to gain his attention for long. 

“Funny seeing you here, Mr. Baggins.” Two inscrutable eyes fixed on Bilbo’s, a solitary wrinkle above his brow accusing Bilbo of sneaking around uninvited, while a scowling mouth weighed down a bearded chin. 

“Er, Nori brought me here to make up for the incident at the hotel,” Bilbo chuckled nervously. “I’ve been a dreadful guest, I’m afraid. I got one good look in the main hall and I went off, and well… it’s all been so lovely.” Bilbo’s hand gestured to the painting in front of them. “I might honestly consider forgiving him.”

The man snorted, standing straighter than the columns in front of the museum, arms crossed. 

“Giving you the opportunity to escape his presence was probably the best apology he is capable of giving,” the man said harshly, eyes staring Bilbo into the floor. 

“Still, he did say there would be dinner, and I was raised with manners enough to know that it is rude to tag along simply for the virtue of the food,” Bilbo added hoping to soften this man’s inexplicable ire. 

“Nori does have _expensive_ tastes,” the man grumbled, irate. 

Bilbo eyed the man’s tailored suit and delicate silver jewelry. “And you don’t?”

“Fair enough, but mine are supported by my own dime,” the man responded shortly, turning away from his examination of Bilbo, eyes narrowed at the painting in front of him. 

They paused, allowing the echoes to fall away against the stone walls and marbled floors. Bilbo shot a glance around the man’s defined physique, as voices in the corridor outside came and went, to no avail. It would’ve been too much to presume Nori’s penchant for timing would bail him out now. Too much to presume that this vexing man whose angry frown sunk ever deeper into his beard would leave and be irrationally angry elsewhere and take out his frustrations on someone else. 

The man didn’t leave though, and Bilbo’s curiosity began to smolder as the silence stretched on. What on Yavanna’s green earth was this man  _ doing _ lingering here? There had to be someone more deserving of his unbearable presence. Maybe Nori as Bilbo still hadn’t quite given up half-baked thoughts of vengeance to avenge the indignities of the evening’s beginning. 

“So, are you and Nori friends then?” Bilbo tapped his fingers along his thighs and knees.

“Of a sort.”

“How does one have sort-of friends?” 

The man offered a half shrug in response. May the Lady grant him patience, it was like prying civil conversation from a granite wall. They sank back into silence like leaves settling at the bottom of a lethargic creek. At a loss for what to do, Bilbo examined the painting again, mood sinking. The soft strokes that could’ve been beautiful and softening in a gentler light, left the scene blurry and harsh, a clouded day in someone else’s memory. A past moment that had slipped onto a canvas, the painter alone on a beach with the sea, before sliding into the present.

“Have you ever been to the sea?” Bilbo asked, shocking himself with the forthright inquiry. The man clearly did not want to make conversation, his behavior bordering on rude and dismissive, but staring out at the lonely sea, Bilbo fancied the painter hadn’t been entirely alone. Maybe someone stood just off the side, just outside the frame of view making snippy comments and passing the day with delicate anecdotes while the wind whipped up sand around them. 

Unaware of Bilbo’s amicable sentiments the man furrowed his brow, and responded, guarded, “When I was much younger.”

“Hmm, I wanted to go once, but I never found the time. I’d imagine the sand gets in everything and takes weeks to clean out. So, perhaps I wouldn’t like it much after all.” 

“Don’t tell me you think  _ sand  _ is so insurmountable an obstacle,” the man scoffed, his face tilted up, disdain evident in the rise of his shoulders. “Then again, with such a…  _ delicate  _ nature, I’m sure you’d find the entire experience upsetting in the extreme.” He finished sarcastically, “Mahal  _ forbid _ you have to deal with something outside of the ordinary.”

The man said this with slender barbs lining his words, which dug into Bilbo’s none-too-thin skin. Whatever had he done to offend the man? 

Bilbo fervently wished the man would leave, but too polite to say so directly, or perhaps built for an unreasonable amount of emotional endurance after bouts with his cousin Lobelia, Bilbo’s mouth quirked up into a dead smile, “Ah, well then, I’ll take that into consideration. When is a good season to plan a trip do you think?”

“And risk your  _ precious  _ proprietary and clean clothes? Why bother?” sneered the man, a hint of snide mockery sneaking into his tone, as though he suspected Bilbo of being air-headed and vacant. Bilbo was irritated and baffled at his tone. The man sure seemed latched onto that silly sand comment, and Bilbo couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something, even as his hackles rose in defense against the blatant hostility. 

“No need to be so harsh, I was merely asking for your opinion.”

“You wouldn’t have to ask if you were employing any form of higher reasoning.” 

The gallery lighting caught at the gleam of the man’s silver cuff-links. The man’s expensive suit folded in crisp wrinkles as he crossed his arms, the professional cut of his beard was drawn sharp and distinct against his skin with clear, clean lines. 

“What is your  _ problem _ ? I was trying to make pleasant conversation if you must know,  _ Mr. Expensive Tastes _ ,” Bilbo snapped, straightening and crossing his arms, as he put his finger on why the man was behaving so poorly, his gaze lying on his wine-colored coat, humiliation and offense curdling his pacification attempts. 

Of course. The bastard thought Bilbo didn’t belong here. Of course, the rich  _ bastard  _ thought he was high and mighty enough to think that Bilbo didn’t deserve his respect or even a basic, surface-level, trust. 

“I gave an honest recommendation.” 

“Ha! Forgive me if I don't trust you.” 

“It is foolish to trust someone you’ve just met,” growled the man, posture closed off and attempting to freeze Bilbo with the icy glass of his glare. 

“In that case, are you quite certain you shouldn’t escort me out then? Who knows? Maybe I’ll lick the paintings, or take a chip off a statue I saw a few rooms back the second turn you leave. For all you know I conned Nori into bringing me here so I can collect nick something and sell it out in a drive-through parking lot. Would you like to check the security footage? Report me to the owners and the curators?” 

“Hardly.” The man raised his chin, staring down his straight nose. “I doubt you’re capable of such things.”

“Good. I’d be offended if you thought I was.” Bilbo resolutely stood up and glared back, trying not to feel offended that the man thought he wasn’t. “Now stop staring at me.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up, lips twitching. “You’re a smart-ass, aren’t you?” 

_ What the fuck? _ Bilbo gaped at the man. Then snapped his jaw shut, clenched his fists, and whirled to face the painting, where the waves taunted him with their continued silence. The bastard’s nerve! He had never,  _ never,  _ been insulted in such a manner  _ to his face _ in his entire life! That man and his stupid-ass,  _ arrogant _ face could fuck off into the fires of Mordor’s deepest pit. What gave him the right to be so damn  _ vicious _ ? He had never met someone so impossibly close-minded, so ignorant and  _ suspicious,  _ who clearly had no second thoughts or filter between his bigoted brain and his mouth. 

Bilbo’s face turned an ugly shade of scarlet, heat causing him to pick at the knot of the once forgotten tie with clumsy fingers. He was such a fool, an  _ idiot _ who had tried to honestly engage this stubborn,  _ rude _ , prideful, and furiously laconic man in decent, prolonged conversation, when the man obviously thought he was less than dirt. Damn the absolute  _ bastard _ . 

There was the sound of shifting fabrics, and then a heavy, echoey step that receded back out into the gallery’s ornate halls. Thank the Valar and their boundless mercy; the man had gotten the hint and left. Bilbo’s wilted pride couldn’t have taken much more abuse.

No longer in the mood for marveling at expensive statues and paintings, Bilbo ached for home and his armchair. Home sounded like an unattainable oasis of peace and it might as well have been as Bilbo checked his battered watch and realized he was going to be a captive for a few more hours. 

Bilbo heaved a sigh and dropped his head onto his hands, trying to minimize the sudden gaping bull horn of a hole that punched through his stomach, startling him with the angry wail of a neglected cat. Right. Dinner. Nori had mentioned something about dinner, hadn’t he? Bilbo hadn’t paid much attention to where he had wandered off to, and, in the hollow vastness of the room, the only sound he could hear was the steady thrum of still seething blood in his ears no matter how hard he strained for the revealing clink of cutlery or friendly human voices. He got up and took a few tentative steps until he stood in the arched doorway, peering down the halls, left and then right. 

The polished floors were smooth as a glassy lake’s surface, frozen into the glamour that had enchanted Bilbo as if they revealed window after window into another world. But now, exhausted and dispirited, he saw only his too-colorful suit, and untamed hair, short and not at all a part of whatever  _ this  _ was reflected on its surface. However, his immediate concerns, dinner and a ride home, because dammit he deserved an expensive meal after  _ that  _ conversation, rested behind these thick stone walls, over these floors, and smelled like fresh, buttery rolls and stinging garlic. 

Bilbo headed left, hoping he wasn’t too late for dinner. Surely, a sit down dinner wouldn’t be suitable in a venue like this made for meandering walking. There would be buffet tables and maybe a larger room with meandering groups of standing people, and, with a little luck, no one would notice his entrance, he’d drink enough to be vaguely numb, he’d find Nori, and be on his way home within the hour. 

Bilbo rounded a few more corners, mood lifting as pungent smells wafted through the air. "Some might follow their hearts, or their gut, but a true Baggins always follows his nose," his mother used to say. An open hall emerged, the soaring walls and ceilings like the union stations in downtown Dale, huge pillars gracing the entrance. Flocks of distinguished people clustered around round dining tables, laid out with rows of cutlery and battalions of wine glasses. Nori, smiling broadly, spun out from behind a pillar. 

“Oh good, you’re here. I was beginning to think you were lost forever in these haunted halls,” Nori declared, throwing his arms out theatrically. 

Bilbo, who was getting used to the idea of living a life manhandled by Nori, was guided through the maze of tables, towards the far side of the hall. He was not in the mood for more halted small talk or more insults, and Nori’s friends were, so far, not in the habit of leaving favorable impressions, if Dwalin and a certain individual were accurate standards. Bilbo didn’t think the latest of them would be exceptions to that rule. They neared the table, cream tablecloths skirting the floor, where four men were leaned forward in hushed conversation. Nori, in a mock military halt, saluted the four seated individuals, and the conversation broke off as if it were a tape recording instantaneously snapped off. 

An older gentleman with crows feet wrinkling the corner of his eyes, a shock of white hair, and a long white beard, meticulously styled into two curving points and resting on a black-breasted suit, sat next to Dwalin, who was, if possible, even more disheveled than he had been earlier in the evening and slumping back in his chair. They both looked Bilbo up and down with an uncomfortable degree of appraisal that had Bilbo fighting the urge to wipe at his face. To the right of Dwalin sat a familiar, aggravating individual whose face was turned down in a pinched grimace over an expensive navy blue suit and trimmed beard. And finally, to that aggravating individual's right, there was a man in a dove grey suit who’s smug smile lit a fire under Bilbo’s skin. 

“Good evening, Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf drawled, eyes twinkling.

Fucking hell. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back!!! I meant to be back sooner, but I wasn't vibing with editing. Or writing. But I finally did it, so yay a chapter! Let me know if there are any egregious mistakes, and, as ever, thank you for the support and encouragement! :)

“You look like you’re mad.” 

Bilbo stared directly into Nori’s eyes and tore off a chunk of thick crusted bread with a violent twist of his arm.

“Oh really?” Mad? At  _ Nori _ ? Bilbo couldn’t  _ possibly  _ fathom a reason he, Bilbo Baggins, would be  _ mad  _ at fucking Nori. He slid his knife across the bread, applying butter with the care of a man sharpening a sword. “Tell me, Nori, did Gandalf put you up to this?”

“Mahal, of course not.” 

Bilbo scrutinized Nori’s sincere expression with a flat expression, searching for any waver that would catch Nori in a lie. Nori’s smile didn’t diminish by a watt, however, and his face remained almost unnaturally genial and open. A prickle of unease ran up Bilbo’s spine, and he looked back down at his bread and butter. 

It was thirty minutes into dinner and Bilbo’s head was pulsating between a Valar’s invisible, squeezing fingers. The pressure felt as though it was building towards a pitiful explosion of grey brain matter urged on by Gandalf’s insulting lack of surprise at Bilbo’s astonished spluttering and Mr. Expensive Tastes’s pointed efforts to avoid eye contact with his glare steady at a point six inches above Bilbo’s head. Nori, _ fucking  _ Nori (Bilbo had no better word to expresses his rage, even in the limitless pit of screaming his mind had become) had taken Bilbo’s initial desperate attempt to slip his grasp and bolt for the hills with chilling grace, patting Bilbo on the back with a broad smile and ushering him into a high-backed chair at the table beside his own with a steel hand. Humiliated, pissed off, and strongly suspecting he had been manipulated by a masterful puppeteer, Bilbo had taken his seat with all the dignity and cool righteous fury he could muster and refused to acknowledge Nori, Dwalin, Gandalf, their white-haired friend, Balin, or Mr. Expensive Tastes, who, as far as Bilbo was concerned, didn’t deserve the brain power used to hate him, as they communicated in low tones over the noise of the surrounding diners. Not that Bilbo could have followed the conversation even if he  _ had  _ wanted to, as it was a cloudy affair speckled with hushed comments traded between Gandalf and Balin, complete with curious glances that were shot his way over the wine glasses that weren’t nearly full enough in Bilbo’s bitter opinion. 

Bilbo ripped into the bread placed in the center of the table, nose high and imagining that he was ripping Nori into insignificant, bloody pieces with a vigour that would render him unable to offer the apology that Bilbo insisted to himself he would not accept.The thought of food, an elusive physical presence as of yet, but smelling ever the more heavenly the longer he sat tormented between these  _ awful _ people, did offer the belated comfort that at least he could enjoy a meal at the expense of these assholes. It would serve them right for prying him out of his life, and nothing soothed Bilbo’s simmering rage quite like picturing their helpless frustration as Bilbo firmly denied whatever mad request they made just as he popped a fork full of something free and delicious into his mouth. Because they  _ would  _ be disappointed, Bilbo promised himself. He would not get sucked into Gandalf’s nonsense, which these people doubtlessly had connections to as well. Gandalf got around far too quickly for such an old man. 

At long last dinner made its appearance on delicate white ceramic plates, steaming with a mouthwatering fillet of apple infused salmon with a golden red overlay of spices and flawless green tipped asparagus stalks which expertly straddled the line between firm and tender better than any tightrope walker he’d ever seen. 

Two bites through into the best salmon of his life, and Bilbo was rudely yanked from his valiant attempt to ignore his dinner companions and salvage the evening. 

“Have you given any more thought to our discussion, Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf inquired.

Bilbo stabbed one of his asparagus stalks with an abrupt downward jerk of his fork, and responded dismissively, mouth half full, “Not really, no.”

“Are you sure about him?” Balin’s weathered features pulled down in some measure of concern over the rim of his wine glass and apparently just as committed as Bilbo was to pretending Bilbo wasn’t there given that he didn’t even tried to lower his voice. “I know you said he’s the man for the job, but if he’s unwilling perhaps it's best to try somebody else.”

“If I say he can help, then help he can.”

“I say he most certainly cannot,” Bilbo interjected with confident relish, flourishing his napkin with a brisk snap and bringing it up to his mouth. 

Mr. Expensive Tastes grumbled, “I told you he was mouthy,” a comment that was directed approximately in Dwalin’s direction, but carried across the table to Bilbo’s ears without discretion.

Bilbo wondered if he would be expected to pay for damages if his plate were to take a sudden flight into Mr. Expensive Tastes’s regrettably handsome face. 

“Time is not a luxury we have in abundance, Mr. Baggins. You would do well not waste mine.”

“It’s not as though I requested this little excursion.” Bilbo glanced around at the crowded room and dropped his voice into a hissed whisper, “ And shouldn’t we be having this conversation somewhere, oh, I don’t know,  _ private _ ?”

“The best distractions are those you don’t have to devise,” Gandalf offered sagely. 

“Everyone’s caught up in their own conversations, laddie. They won’t notice,” Balin assured. 

“Are you quite sure? Because I might start shouting, and I’d hate to interrupt someone’s meal.”

“An answer if you please, Mr. Baggins.”

“I was rather under the impression I already gave one.”

“If that were the case, I think we both know you would have already left the table, no matter how enticing the salmon.”

Bilbo pushed around his food with his fork. Gandalf was delusional. Bilbo was here because, well, because he  _ physically _ could not leave. He didn’t have money for a cab and didn’t think he could find the grand hall entrance if he tried. Of course, there was always the question of why he came with Nori in the first place, but that could be summed up as a horrible lapse of judgement spurred on by irrational belief that Nori would leave him alone if he gave the man what he wanted. 

“I’m comfortable. I’ve got the house to upkeep and a job at the Ered Luin.”

“You’ve gone through four jobs in the last three years. Comfortable doesn’t mean satisfied.” 

“You’ve been keeping track of my work history?”

“Forgive an old man for keeping track of Belladonna Took’s son.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“If you’re so inclined.”

Was he so inclined? Bilbo didn’t know. He knew he was tired, tired of living in a house filled with ghosts, flaking and crumbling away as Bilbo dallied indoors occupying his time with trivial pursuits, tired of the jobs and their mundane consistency, tired of not going places and not doing the things he’d dreamed he one day would. But was he tired enough to throw it all to the wind? Risk his albeit limited dignity? His life? For some old man and this group of people and whatever borderline legal venture they would surely push him into? The rest of the room faded away, bright chatter muffled. Nori, Balin, Dwalin, and Mr. Expensive Taste blurred into Bilbo’s peripheral vision, and the room dimmed. Bilbo could hear her. Her laugh. The scent of her cooking and a hint of her perfume carried on her clothes.  _ Oh my flower, he’s certainly waited long enough, don’t you think?  _ Her secret smile curved and danced, adventure filled eyes flashing and fading into mists once more. 

“Gandalf, you said that she… that you needed  _ her  _ help, and that I could, you know, stand in for her, and that you thought  _ I  _ could help,” Bilbo said, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth as he met Gandalf’s clear gaze. “Do you really think things will be better if I help? Do you  _ really _ think that Bilbo Baggins, who’s done nothing much and knows even less, could possibly make anything  _ better _ ?”

Mr. Expensive Tastes huffed a sigh and shook his head. 

“Maybe you can and maybe you can’t,” Gandalf mused. “I think, however, what matters most is the willingness to try.” 

Bilbo glanced around at the rest of the table, whose straight-spined occupants wore equally serious expressions, and he squared his own shoulders in preparation, fireworks shooting off inside him, questions at the tip of his tongue. He could walk away. He didn’t have to know anything. He could walk away now and everything would go back to the way it was. This was irrational. He would regret this. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t even know what  _ this _ was. This was madness. His chest swelled and the pinprick butterflies of excitement raced through his limbs. That smile flashed in his mind’s eye. This was sheer and utter  _ madness _ . But what did he have to lose? 

“What is it  _ exactly  _ that you want me to do?”

Mr. Expensive Tastes shot Gandalf a look, but, unperturbed, Gandalf smiled leaned forward, fingers laced over the table. 

“I’ve reached out to these fine gentlemen, the heads of Erebor that you see seated before you, for help on my next project.”

“The heads of the Erebor? This Erebor?”

“Among other things. They own this museum, however their hands are in a variety of pies.”

“Charitable organizations and financial management to name a few,” Balin added. 

Bilbo studied each of the seated persons but couldn’t imagine any of them as heads of anything, much too shifty, too grandfatherly, too rude, too arrogant, and too out of touch with his knowledge of coherent reality. 

Gandalf continued, “Our spheres of influence do not usually overlap, but, in this instance, their interests happen to align with my own.” 

“What have you heard of the Arkenstone, laddie?” Balin asked.

“Er, wasn’t it a sculpture of some sort? A rock? Fairly small? My mother might have mentioned it once; she liked art,” Bilbo said. 

“It’s not just a  _ rock _ ,” Mr. Expensive Tastes snapped. “It is worth more than you can comprehend.”

“And it's… missing?” Bilbo ventured.

“ _ Stolen _ ,” Mr. Expensive Tastes hissed. 

“Yes, yes, stolen,” Gandalf said. “We suspect by the likes Smaug Eldhel, who you may remember as being connected by association to a string of similar thefts a number of years ago.”

Oddly enough, Bilbo did remember those thefts. He had been a teenager at the time, and had entertained a passing preoccupation with popular crimes and thefts, missing artworks and cultural artifacts among them. He had imagined himself a future detective in the making, collecting strips of magazine cutouts describing the stolen works, arranging them into a plastic binder held together by ragged duct tape. The binder had vanished as Bilbo grew, forgotten in boxes among other relics of childhood, left to collect dust in his mother’s attic. 

“I used to follow some of the cases, yes, but I never heard or saw anything about the Arkenstone.”

“You wouldn’t have. My father, who was the head of Erebor at the time, thought admitting to the circumstances of its loss would throw unwanted attention on the family,” Mr. Expensive Tastes said. 

_ "Pride’s a family trait then,” _ Bilbo noted to himself, observing that the man before him obviously hadn’t stooped to report its loss either. “For something you claim to want back so badly you’ve done a rather poor job on the recovery effort, if you’ll excuse me for saying so.”

Mr. Expensive Tastes’s jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around his steak knife. 

“We reached out to the appropriate channels, and we’ve been able to track its movements for a number of years but always a step or two behind,” Balin intervened, sending pointed glances in Mr. Expensive Tastes’ direction.

“Hence, my involvement,” Gandalf said. “There are… resources available to myself that have made it possible to narrow down the Arkenstone’s current location to a secure compound that our suspect has had in his possession for some twenty-odd years. We now believe that recovery is possible if specific timely action is taken through points of limited access.”

“There’s been movement,” Nori piped up, “deviating patterns in activity, word sent out about a possible gathering of the big name organizations in the area, a diversion of resources to expanding manpower, and some new “business opportunities” are being brought under this operation’s management. Money is circulating, like water around a drain. Drains all lead somewhere, and this one leads to employment opportunities for certain brave souls.” Nori winked. 

“That’s where you come in, my dear Mr. Baggins.”

“I’m a bit strapped for cash, but I really wasn’t planning to grovel in front of the criminal underworld quite yet. I thought I might try my luck as a novelty basket weaver first, thank you,” Bilbo muttered, running his hands over the napkin in his lap. 

“You wouldn’t be groveling. Parties need food, and you’re a chef, aren’t you? A decent one too, according to Poppy, and she knows her business,” Nori said. 

“Should I even be surprised you’ve shaken down my boss?”

“Considering I’m paid by her boss, no, it would just waste time,” Nori smirked, twisting a ring around his finger. 

“ _ Nori _ ,” Mr. Expensive Tastes growled.

“ _ Your boss? _ Who’s your boss? I thought you were –”

“What? Gandalf’s man? Independently wealthy? Out for shits and giggles? Screwing with you?”

“Gentlemen, if we can get back to the issue at hand,” Gandalf recalled them. “Mr. Baggins, in light of your personal background, you were approached to help us trace and recover the Arkenstone.”

Bilbo’s salmon was cold when he brought the fork back up to his mouth, appetite rapidly dissipating. Bilbo forced himself to swallow. Dear Lady, Bilbo was going to have to knock it into Gandalf’s head wasn’t he? He wasn’t his mother. Those…  _ things _ that she had done, helped with, whatever, Bilbo couldn’t do any of that. He shouldn’t have asked. Green Lady be good, it looked as though everyone was in for that promised disappointment after all. 

“Gandalf, I don’t think being raised by my mother, no matter what she may or may not have done, qualifies as a training course in how to get cozy with prominent figures in an underground criminal enterprise. And for a shiny  _ rock _ ? Priceless cultural heritage aside, and I am fascinated by it, I am, but I’m not entirely sure I’m the man for the job. I’ve never done anything of the sort you understand,” Bilbo said helplessly looking at the stone-faced members of the table. 

“Hmph. I beg to differ. As Mr. Nori mentioned, you are a chef who’s been working in some of the finest restaurants and hotels in Dale over the past fifteen years. That requires diligence, precision, a level head, and a tolerance for high stress environments. All the skills necessary to the success of this endeavor can be taught. Temperament is a much harder metal to forge.” 

Despite Gandalf’s confidence, or maybe because of it, Bilbo's second thoughts were growing more persuasive by the moment. Sure, he had those traits in the kitchens he was comfortable working in; he had the experience and knowledge base necessary to back up his actions and his decisions. He knew nothing about art recovery aside from the fanciful accounts he had read as a teenager, which hardly illuminated the process of recovery as much as sensationalized the crimes or fixated on the murky conspiracy theories surrounding them. His sleuthing skills were minimal at best, and he hadn’t seriously lied or tried to steal anything since he was nine and wanted to “borrow” his neighbor’s bike for a quick jaunt around the neighborhood, crashed it into a brick wall, and then pretended he hadn’t done so. Bilbo thought that this track record suggested a rather poor potential as a thief. Sweet Lady, he’d be caught, killed, or in prison before the year was out. Besides, in hindsight, he had a lot to live for, his garden, his books, his absurdly comfortable armchair. It wasn’t  _ exciting,  _ but, stomach queasy with anxiety, Bilbo thought unexciting sounded alright by him. He simply couldn’t do this. He’d bow out, sign whatever secrecy documents they liked, and carry on his merry way. 

Sensing eyes boring into his forehead, Bilbo’s gaze moved upwards and met Mr. Expensive Tastes’, who flattened him beneath another disapproving expression. Bilbo was struck once again by the granite in that face, the controlled smoldering in the arrogant line of his nose and the wild man aspect of his hair. He had his glass half raised to his mouth and, to anyone else, he might have been inspecting the rim of the cup. Contempt rose with the left side of his thin lips in a smirking grimace. His stare, laser focused intensity, eye-to-eye with Bilbo, even as he looked down his nose, was a challenge. “ _ I dare you,”  _ that stare said. “ _ I dare you.” _

“Alright then. I’m at your service.” His rebellious words escaped his mouth before he could put a hand up to stop them. The irrational idiocy of the decision turned the hysterical twitch of Bilbo’s mouth into a broad grin, as he picked up his own wine glass and knocked back its contents. His hands trembled in acknowledgement of his challenger. 

_ Damn.  _

Never let it be said that Bilbo Baggins backed down from a dare. 

Balin signaled for another round of wine to be poured as Gandalf nodded his approval, the traces of a knowing smile etched in the crinkles of his eyes. Mr. Expensive Tastes snorted and took a drawn out sip of wine, mouth pulled tight as though his drink had been spiked with lemon juice. The other member of the table descended back into a flurried battle of conversation, but Bilbo, caught up in his own emotional turmoil, noticed it in the same manner that people notice the ghost of a summer breeze, which is to say, barely at all. He was actually going to do this.  _ Holy shit. _ He might die in the attempt. Well, hopefully not  _ die _ . Fuck. The wide hall emptied out as the evening carried on, drunken groups of twos and threes, getting up from their tables and, in some cases, stumbling out back into the halls. Bilbo’s chest swelled with an unidentifiable tide of emotion, and he wondered whether this was why his mother agreed to work with Gandalf all those years ago, if she had felt this untamed reckless abandon, this heightened sense of doing and being. Good Lady Yavanna, Bilbo was so very screwed. 

Nori and Dwalin must have slipped off at some point while Bilbo was processing, along with Gandalf, because when Bilbo came around to a substantial awareness at the harsh scrape of Balin’s chair against the ground, he looked up and realized that they were gone, which was a problem. He had assumed Nori would be taking him home, and as appealing as the halls and galleries were in the glimmering light and the pre-dinner company of strangers, Bilbo ached for home. He was going to have to ask for assistance, and his scattered brain jumped between the two options: Balin who didn’t appear to be in any particular hurry to depart as he fastidiously straightened his tie, and Mr. Expensive Tastes who, unfortunately, hadn't vanished tracelessly like an apparition along with everyone else.

“Where’s Nori gone? He was supposed to take me home.” Bilbo’s nervous words stumbled out like clumsy children, as he addressed Balin. 

“He and Mr. Dwalin had some business to take care of, I’m sure they’ll be back to fetch you,” Balin assured.

“Oh. Should I wait here for them then, or…”

“No, I wouldn’t wait here, they’ll probably end up around the front with the car. I’d escort you myself, but I’m afraid I’ve got some papers in the downstairs office that I’ve got to collect yet tonight.”

“It’s alright. I’m sure Mr. Expensive Tastes here can show me the way out,” Bilbo quipped in another moment of brazen idiocy to his own embarrassed horror, as he spotted the man in question adjusting his silver cufflinks out of the corner of his eye. 

The man’s eyes widened in surprise or offense at the nickname before schooling themselves back into careful indifference. He extended an elbow that Bilbo promptly snubbed. He was too sober to lean on well-developed muscles when the man who owned them was such an ass. Balin looked them up and down, snorted to himself, patted his pockets, smiled, and then turned and departed leaving Bilbo alone with Mr. Expensive Tastes who wasted no time in diving into the halls with a clipped pace that had Bilbo stumbling in his wake, regretting that he’d not taken the man’s arm. Through the halls, past the iris gardens, battles, and serene portraits, they emerged back at the entrance in barely five minutes, Mr. Expensive Tastes striding out into the nipping night air with a grandiose confidence that Bilbo didn’t feel.

Standing at the bottom of the stepped entryway, Bilbo stepped out onto the curb and squinted out into the light lined drive, trying in vain to spot the car that had brought him and praying that Nori hadn’t abandoned him. Cabs from this far, especially at this time of night, would be too expensive for Bilbo’s meticulously planned budget. A cold wind inched into the night, and the trees, clothed as they were in fading leaves, rattled their branches faintly. Bilbo, submerged in the wind after the cozy warmth of Erebor, cursed the fact that he hadn’t brought a thicker jacket. Then, miracle of miracles, Mr. Expensive Tastes finally deigned to grant Bilbo the honor of his verbal acknowledgement.

“Thorin Durin.”

“Sorry?”

“My name is Thorin Durin. If we’re going to be working together you might as well know,” Thorin said, disdain dripping from his controlled voice. 

“I take it you didn’t care for the nickname then.”

“I’ve heard more creative,” Thorin sniffed, his casual posture suggesting he wasn’t at all uncomfortable in the chilling night air. 

“Sorry to disappoint.”  _ Could the car be any slower? _

“Don’t be. I’m used to disappointment.”

_ What in Yavanna’s name was that supposed to mean? _ Offense bit into Bilbo’s side like a gnawing wolf, and he tossed his head back in an effort to stifle the heat climbing into his cheeks. He might be a disappointment to others and, more often than not, to himself, but the idea of being a disappointment to this man in particular, this man and his arrogant, prideful, holier than thou countenance, after Bilbo had impulsively decided to help  _ him _ , well not not help  _ him  _ per se, rubbed Bilbo the wrong way. This man,  _ Thorin _ , didn’t get to pass judgement on Bilbo, who rather felt he had decimated his own modest expectations for himself this evening. 

Conversation, killed with Thorin’s fucking rock to the head, they stood together silently and watched the trees beyond the property toss up their limbs into the wind. 

Nori couldn’t have arrived fast enough, so when he sauntered over, hands in his pockets, with a sullen Dwalin in tow, Bilbo almost cheered in relief. 

“Ready to go home, mate?”

“Yes, yes, quite ready indeed.” 

The sterile glow of headlights made its way up the drive. Thorin inclined his head towards Bilbo as the car came to a halt so seamlessly it was as though it had never moved in the first place. 

“Um, have a good evening.” 

Bilbo bit his cheek. 

“I shall endeavor to do so.” Thorin’s face didn’t budge, didn’t shift other than fly away strands of hair catching in the wind, his features set and unyielding in an expression that bordered on excessive indifference. 

“Right. I’ll be going then.”

There was no further response from Thorin as Bilbo climbed clumsily into the backseat of the car. Once he was settled he caught Thorin’s outline turning around and marching back up the steps, hand at his chest, presumably adjusting his suit jacket’s buttons.  _ The challenge is on, you smug bastard. _ The door clicked shut, and Thorin’s distinguished figure vanished behind shadowed glass and the stern, soaring columns. Surrounded by soft leather and warm air, the car slid away, smooth as glass through the sea, Nori humming sweet, tuneless nonsense over Dwalin’s snores.


End file.
